


Remembering Bodie, part  2

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Amnesia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk





	Remembering Bodie, part  2

_**Remembering Bodie, part 2**_  
  
#5:

 **Getting There**

  
For a long time everything was fuzzy. Doyle kept drifting in and out of memories, pain and the present.

Sometimes people were there with him wanting him to answer questions, take tests, swallow tablets or eat the unpalatable hospital food.

Sometimes they wanted to talk, or just sit by him and try to be friendly, like that one bloke that Doyle was certain he should remember. He’d tried a couple of times on his own, afraid to ask what he should already know. Yet somehow his mind always drifted away from it before he could quite remember. Nobody went out of their way to tell him; it couldn’t be too important, or perhaps he was allowed to not know. Perhaps this bloke just reminded him of someone. Yeah; that must be it. At least he didn’t seem demanding. Though sometimes he looked awfully sad before he remembered to cover it up. He would get Doyle anything he wanted, too: at first water, later foods that sounded good to him smuggled past the guards—the nurses—and later magazines, books and sketch paper and pencils.

Ray drew, sometimes from memory, sometimes still life of the things at his bedside table: fruit, flowers, water glasses half full. He felt like he hadn’t sketched in a while, welcomed the time to do so. It would’ve been all right if he wasn’t in pain and could remember things, but so much of his life was a great, yawning blank. The things he could remember were filled with so much rage and sorrow and pain that he wasn’t sure he wanted the rest back.

There had been someone by his side, though, through all of it, and that felt right. He somehow didn’t want to look at it too closely, because that would mean the rest of it had to come back, too—the pain, the lack of rest, being unable to really fix anything and yet having it all on your shoulders, your duty.

Pain sometimes made him feel a bit nauseous, and at those times he couldn’t even stand to be around the quiet bloke. The lights were too bright, all he could do was gnaw his sheets—or want to, anyway—till the painkillers kicked in enough that he slept. The bloke looked most mournful when Doyle was hurting like that, before he quietly left. He walked like he was angry at those times but with his shoulders sort of slumped.

As Ray began to recover—the doctors said it was head trauma—he remembered some things in the misty whorls of memory.

He remembered Bodie. That was the name of the man beside him in his memories, though his face wasn’t clear yet.

When he thought of Bodie’s face, there was a sort of gap or mist between them obscuring it—and pain and blood, fists and fury. He couldn’t, didn’t want to see more.

He remembered the name from all the times he’d called it—angrily, demandingly, teasingly, fiercely. (Bo-die. BODIE!) He and Bodie—whoever that was—had been mates and worked together. Doing their fierce and dangerous deeds.

That was enough. He didn’t want to know more.

When she visited, he was pleased to see his mum but saddened to see her looking so old around the eyes and so worried about him. He didn’t tell her about the headaches, the pain. He promised her he was doing fine and would go for a visit soon. He never did visit his mum enough.

She hadn’t looked as though she thought he meant it. Probably he’d said it before too many times without actually going for a visit. That felt familiar—a feeling of vague guilt regarding her, a feeling of leaving family obligations undone.

But this time, he got to fulfil his promise. The doctor informed him he’d get to go. The quiet bloke was going to drive him. “Your friend will take you there,” the doctor had said, nodding to the quiet bloke whose eyes were large and dark, only on Doyle today. He stood in the corner of the hospital room, looking somehow diminished, his eyes large in his face and a strained look there, as if he hadn’t smiled for far too long. Doyle smiled his gratitude, and nodded vaguely to the three men: the serious doctor, the sad, quiet man, and the older man with sandy hair who watched them all with too-knowing eyes.

Doyle wished they’d leave so he could have his next pain killer and go to sleep. His head hurt a great deal today.

#

“You all right there? Need the blanket over your knees, mate?” The quiet man moved with such energy, a lot of it nervous. His large hands seemed filled with tension as he reached out to adjust everything for Doyle, make it right for him in the passenger seat of his car. The car was a familiar build and make; Doyle had the feeling he’d once driven one quite like it, but he couldn’t recall the name.

“Leave it. I’m fine,” said Doyle, slapping the hands away irritably. His head hurt, and he dreaded how long the trip would be till he made it home to mum. He also felt obscurely guilty that the quiet man looked so sad.

Doyle knew he hadn’t used proper manners since ending up in the hospital. He’d tried to be polite, but he’d never enquired the man’s name or tried to draw him out. All he’d wanted to do was rest, and sometimes demand things from his new friend. Was that why the quiet bloke was so tense? Didn’t like being taken advantage of like he was Doyle’s personal valet? Well, he shouldn’t have volunteered, then.

Doyle leaned back, his eyes closed, frowning, and rubbed the sore spot between his brows.

“Due for your pain killer, mate?” asked the quiet man, all solicitous.

“No,” snapped Doyle, who had just checked his watched and been dismayed to see there was nearly an hour yet till he could take one. And he hurt—how he hurt.

After that the man just drove in silence, for a long distance. Doyle endured it, every bump in the road and the tormenting whine of traffic.

The thrumming of the car sent him to sleep shortly after he finally took his tablet and troubled dreams found him there. They blended with the sound of the engine and tyres, with a nameless dread, a need to hurry for so many lives hung in the balance, including both of theirs, his and Bodie’s.

“Bodie!”

He woke with a shriek, was calling his partner for help when a strong hand shook him, hard. He backed into the corner of the car, striking back, hitting and opening his eyes at the same time, another yelp still on his lips. He fought back against Ramos and Valentin and all the other horrors out there.

It was the quiet man driving, steering one-handed and trying to fend him off with the other. He gave one worried look at the road, his face tight, and then back at Doyle, his eyes very large and dark and tense. “Stop it, Doyle. It’s just me.”

As soon as he saw it was a friend, Doyle stopped.

“Sorry! Dreams.” He subsided, still breathing hard. The car ride made him feel a little queasy. He struggled to catch his breath. Outside, the fields and hedges of the countryside swept by.

He controlled his breathing before turning casually back to his new friend. “Don’t tell Bodie, all right?”

“What?” The man looked at him, jaw tight, face startled even behind that mask he seemed to wear, that emotionless mask.

“About my bad dreams. Don’t tell Bodie. He’d laugh.” He leaned back, closing his eyes, grimacing and rubbing his forehead.

There was silence for a long time. “Must be some pal, if he’d laugh at you,” said the quiet man in a tight, grim voice.

“Wouldn’t mean anything by it. He’s all right. I just don’t feel up to dealing with him right now.” He kept his eyes closed.

“You think you ever will?” asked the driver in a carefully controlled voice.

“Suppose so,” said Doyle with a sigh. All he could think of when he thought of Bodie was supreme capabilities, duty, and the pressure of their job—and the troubling, welling forgetfulness where his face should be. Bodie was that great, overwhelming presence beside him, always full of fun and laughs and danger, always strong and capable, daring Doyle to keep up, pushing him to do his best, laughing at and with him. That was lovely when you were well. But not so much right now. He just wanted to rest, not to pretend or try hard for anybody. He needed sleep...

“Don’t tell Bodie,” he repeated, yawning and drifting away again.

“I won’t tell fucking Bodie,” said the driver in a dark, angry voice.

Doyle wanted to tell him, ‘Don’t be like that. He’s really all right.’ But sleep found him first.

#6:

 **Arrival**

  
Doyle woke to strong hands trying to lift him from the passenger seat. “Bodie, stop it!” he growled, batting at the hands. He opened his eyes blearily to see the quiet man who’d driven him, here by his side.

The man gave Doyle a startled look and smile tentatively. “Sunshine...?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s you.” Doyle closed his eyes again for a moment, fighting a great weariness. He hadn’t wanted to wake up.

After a moment, the hands began to pat at him. “Come on, sunshine,” said the driver with studied brightness and cheer. “We’ve reached your mum’s. Time to go inside, have a nice cup of tea. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Cup of tea? Maybe a biccie? Come on, mate. If you don’t want me carrying you then walk!”

Doyle found himself half hauled, half supported into the house, grumbling all the way and half falling asleep again against the man’s shoulder. The man pushed him gently off it and brushed off his shoulder. “Don’t drool on me, sunshine. Have too many tablets, did you?”

Doyle opened his mouth to disagree but found he was too tired. He closed his eyes and settled his head back against the shoulder, trapping Bodie’s—the man’s—hand there.

He felt like there was something important, something he should remember. He struggled against sleep for a moment then felt it slipping further away, and with a sharp pang of regret, entirely out of his reach.

“Ray!” said Mum, and he felt her hands on him, worried, checking his forehead, helping to support him in. He tried to say that he was just tired, but a great yawn escaped him, obscuring speech.

They let him collapse into a chair in the kitchen and droop there. Mum fussed over him, something he might not normally have liked, but today it was a pleasant, safe, homey feeling to have her there in the warm kitchen, looking after him, fetching tea. The familiar surroundings felt warm and safe, an embrace of safe and homey kitchen. He felt himself reviving a bit.

“Thank you for bringing him, Mr.—?”

Doyle pried his eyelids open, and looked at the quiet man to see how he’d answer the question in Mum’s voice.

The quiet man looked tall and sturdy and uncomfortably out of place in that tiny, careful kitchen decorated with wallpaper and old prints, a window box and a single, well-polished copper pan hanging on the wall.

“Smith,” said the man firmly, his jaw set. His gaze darted past Mum to Doyle.

Somehow Doyle felt relieved. He shut his eyes again and didn’t even try to cover his yawn.

He didn’t remember much after that till he woke up in a suffocatingly soft bed, an eiderdown over him, which he kicked off because he was too hot. He wandered out into the kitchen, got a drink of water and went to the loo. Mum was there when he got out, putting the kettle on. He’d no idea how long he’d been here, but it was morning. Mum wore slippers and a dressing gown. Doyle walked over to her and gave her a sleepy hug then started to go back to bed, yawning.

“Ray, love,” said Mum, stopping him with a hand on the arm. She gave him a concerned, questioning look, peering into his eyes. “Your friend—Mr Smith. I’m renting him a room. You don’t mind, do you?”

Doyle shook his head. He couldn’t remember that his mum rented rooms, but it didn’t matter to him. He just wanted to sleep.

He did, more profoundly, deeply, and longer than he had in hospital. No one came in to wake him and do things to him or make him answer questions or eat before he was hungry or take things he wasn’t ready to take.

When next he woke, it was nearly evening. He felt a vague stirring of memories around him, like so much dust, but when he tried to reach out to grab them, they slid away like frightened mice. He swung his feet out of the bed and walked carefully into the kitchen.

Mum and What’s-his-name, that bloke, were sitting at the kitchen table over a cup of tea. The sun was going down. Doyle needed a pee.

The man was leaning forward a bit, looking serious and quiet and concerned. He and Mum were talking. A plate of biscuits sat untouched between them.

“Hullo,” said Doyle. He felt awkward suddenly because they’d stopped talking. Mum turned to look at him, a smile growing on her face.

“Join us for a cup of tea. Are you hungry yet, Ray? I tried to wake you but you said you’d rather sleep.”

That must’ve been one of the memories that escaped him. They were so like water these days, escaping any which way from his hands.

He shook his head. He couldn’t tell if he was hungry or not. “Excuse me.” He headed to the loo. He felt uncomfortable under that solemn gaze from—What’s-his-name. Mr Whoever-he-was shouldn’t seem so sad.

When he returned, the quiet man took his arm and steered him to the table. “Take a seat and eat, Ray. You mother’s worried about you.”

Ray rubbed his arm, but he sat. He ate what they put in front of him, though he wasn’t hungry and couldn’t afterwards remember what it was. He fell asleep over his second cup of hot, sweet tea. He didn’t usually like it this sweet, but it tasted good today. A dry, warm hand felt his forehead. “No fever, at least,” said a familiar voice. “But if he can’t stay awake much longer than this we’ll need to take him to a doctor.”

Doyle batted his hand down. “Go away, Bodie!” he growled, half to the man in his dream, half to the annoying hand and voice.

The warm hand caught his and squeezed suddenly, tightly, convulsively. “I won’t, mate. I won’t,” promised a voice suddenly gone thick with emotion.

Doyle frowned, still stuck in that hazy place where he was almost asleep and nothing felt quiet real. It seemed important, what the man had just said. But once again, it slipped away.

  
#7:

 **Recuperation**

Doyle woke the next morning feeling better, more like himself: clear headed and in less pain. He stretched, luxuriating in the comfortable surroundings. A warm, handmade quilt stretched over him. Yellow curtains moved faintly in a breeze that smelled of fresh green things growing outdoors. Though the room was decorated differently, the light and smell were familiar, as if he’d been transported back to childhood. He got up slowly, anxious not to feel dizzy, and headed out to the kitchen.

When the quiet man entered the room, looking grim and sad as if his dog had just died, Doyle greeted him with a raised hand. His mouth was full, eating toast coated thickly with butter and marmalade. It had been a while since he’d made such a pig of himself he was fairly certain, but he hadn’t tasted anything as good as his mother’s homemade bread and marmalade in a long time either.

“Have some,” he said indistinctly, when he could speak. He held a hand up to his mouth to keep from spraying crumbs. Now that he was feeling better, he was afraid this man would disappear before Ray could talk to him. It seemed important not to let that happen, for some reason.

The man sat with alacrity and reached for the goodies, giving Doyle a big, sheepish smile, half reluctant, half pleased. “I do love a good second breakfast.”

Doyle nodded. Who wouldn’t? “What’s your name again?” he asked casually. “I keep forgetting.”

And just like that, the man’s smile disappeared, wiped off his face completely. It was interesting and a bit unnerving how the light could just go out of someone’s face like that, how completely blank the man could suddenly look. “Philip Smith,” he said in a flat voice. He held toast in one hand, motionless. “I’m staying with your mother for a few—weeks. I’ll be paying rent.” He buttered and ate his toast, forgetting marmalade, chewing as mechanically as a cow chewing the cud.

Doyle watched, feeling unnervingly as if he’d missed something important. The man’s eyes were far away and not happy.

“It’s a nice area,” he tried again. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the rest.” And he looked inquiringly at Smith. “From whatever it is you do?”

“Civil servant,” said Smith in a croaking, harsh voice and rose abruptly. His chair made a loud scrape as he pushed it back. He strode from the room, leaving Doyle to stare after him and finish the last of the toast alone.

Despite Smith’s odd behaviour, Doyle found himself enjoying the time at his mother’s. He rested, slept, ate and read. He didn’t watch much telly, because too much noise made his head hurt.

He curled up on the couch and read books till the words began to blur before his eyes, and he had to stop and rub his aching head. Sometimes he took short walks outdoors. Mr Smith always seemed to be around in the background when he did so, but he didn’t join Doyle, leaving him alone to enjoy the peaceful countryside without comment.

Doyle slept a great deal, and found his headaches and mental confusion slowly leeching away. He needed less pain medication, and after a few days (which seemed to blend together, all comfortably homey, safe and the same), he felt stronger, able to stay awake for longer periods of time and concentrate on his books and walk for longer distances.

His mum was an excellent cook and good company, as well. She didn’t press him to spend time with her, though she cosseted him with tea and food often enough that he suspected his jeans would shortly become much too tight. She cooked wonderful meals and talked to him about the old days. At first Doyle had difficulty remembering his old school friends, or caring who they had grown up to marry. He wondered if she was making some of it up, but he didn’t really care either way. Then after a bit longer, he began to grow more involved in these homey tales, asking questions. If she had told him before and he forgot, she told him again, and after a time, it seemed he did remember and recognise names and faces, shown in the newspaper (bloody Johnson had been made bank manager, the sod!), and from wedding photos.

Most of his classmates were married, living stable lives, most with at least a child or two. The girl he’d had a huge crush on was now a mum with three children and a job at a hairdresser’s part time. Doyle wondered if she retained any of the glamour he remembered, but his mum didn’t have a picture of her.

Mr Smith was very much a background character in all of this, listening to Mum with something like polite interest in his eyes but keeping his gaze off Doyle and eating his way steadily through his meals. But he never seemed to really enjoy them, which was a shame. Mum was such a good cook. It seemed a waste for her dishes to be eaten by someone who didn’t care much about food.

One day Doyle woke up from his unplanned nap on the couch with a yelp, kicking out his feet and springing to them. He stumbled a little bit in his hurry, looking around wildly for the phone. Mr Smith was there, as if materialising from nowhere. He caught Doyle’s arm and held it in a steadying grip.

“What is it?”

“I’ve got to call Cowley.” He looked at Mr Smith anxiously then pulled his arm free and went to find the telephone. He couldn’t have misplaced it, surely, but it wasn’t where he remembered from when he was a lad. “I haven’t checked-in in weeks!”

This time Mr Smith took both his arms and held them firmly, looking into his face and smiling. “He knows where you are. You’re on medical leave, remember? Resting up, at your mum’s.” He gave Doyle a little shake. “So relax, all right? You don’t want him to cut that leave short, do you?”

Doyle relaxed a little. “No.” He remembered another reason it would be better to put off ringing Cowley and the icy fear that sometimes gripped his heart still. He looked anxiously into Mr Smith’s face, surprised to realise he was very close to tears. “But I can’t find the phone. And suppose Bodie calls?”

Mr Smith blinked and grew still. “Bodie?” he asked in a strange, awkward voice.

“Yeah, my mate. Didn’t I tell you about him? We work together. Suppose he’s worried about me?” Doyle turned away, ran a hand back through his hair and kicked a plump, plush footstool. It fell over with a thump.

“You think he’s worried about you?” asked Smith cautiously.

“I hope he isn’t. I hope he’s mad as hell at me and that’s why he hasn’t—hasn’t called or been by.” Doyle plopped bonelessly onto the couch again and ran his hands back distractedly through his hair, tugging at the unruly curls. He’d probably been about due for a haircut before he came to visit Mum.

“Mad at you?” Smith sat quietly beside him, easing onto the other half of the couch. It dipped under the man’s sturdy weight. “Why would you want him to be mad at you?”

Doyle savagely blinked away the tears in his eyes. “Because that means he’s not really hurt—not badly hurt. He’s not calling because he can’t—he’s not calling because he’s not ready yet. I can stand that. I can’t if I’ve hurt him seriously.” He heard the catch in his voice and stared numbly ahead, trying to get control of his emotions. It had been in the background, but he’d been shoving it back so successfully it was overwhelming to feel it all gushing to the surface the moment he tried to tell Smith about his mate Bodie.

“Why do you think you could’ve hurt him?” Smith touched Doyle’s arm gently.

Doyle took a deep, shuddering breath. “Because I hit him. I don’t remember—exactly what or why. But I remember Bodie. And me. Hitting each other. He wouldn’t—Bodie wouldn’t do that. So I must’ve started it. Letting my temper get the better of me again.”

He shuddered at the thought, squeezing his eyes shut against the memories, so awful he still hadn’t been able to remember Bodie’s face, simply the shadowy great bulk of him, fighting for all he was worth, eyes glaring into Doyle’s gaze, fiercely trying to communicate something....

“I remember hitting him and hitting him. And then—nothing. And I woke up in hospital and he wasn’t there...and nobody mentioned him... He must’ve been hurt badly or he’d be there.” He shrugged away irritably from the pat on his arm, glaring. “You don’t know Bodie! He’d have been there.”

“Maybe he was, sunshine. Your memory wasn’t too good at the time. Maybe you saw him and didn’t recognise him.”

“He’d have talked to me, wouldn’t he?” Doyle turned to glare at Smith, swiping at the betraying tears that had filled and overflowed his lower eyelids. “And—nothing. Not a letter, not a call, not a visit.”

Smith looked really angry for a moment, but he contained it, pressing his lips together firmly. “The thing I don’t get, sunshine, is why you didn’t ask about him if you were that worried.” His voice was crisp, his eyes dark, accusing, boring into Doyle.

Doyle turned away woodenly. “Because as long as I don’t ask, there’s a chance, isn’t there? A chance he’s just a-angry with me. If I ask, and Cowley tells me—I—I—there’s no more chance, is there?”

Tears were sliding down his face now and he’d given up attempts to stop them as the words finally wrenched themselves from him, and he acknowledged the thing he feared the most. “What if I’ve killed him? What if I killed Bodie?”

“Sunshine,” said Smith, sounding exasperated to the extreme. A hand on his arm and Doyle turned, opening his mouth to continue, still worked up.

“Sunshine, it’s me. I’m Bodie.” Dark blue eyes gave him a scolding, affectionate look. His hand squeezed hard and strong on Doyle’s arm—strong as an ex-SAS man. Strong as Doyle’s CI5, headstrong, leap-before-you-look partner. “Didn’t really think I’d leave you alone, did you?” A hand rubbed sturdily up and down his arm, and his smile turned rueful, wobbly, warm. “Been here all along, haven’t I?”

“Bodie?” Doyle blinked in confusion, trying to recognise his face, hoping against hope it was true but staggered by the man’s words. “But I don’t—I can’t remember what you look like. Is it really you?”

Smith—Bodie?—nodded. “Why can’t you remember me, sunshine? I haven’t changed.” Now a worried frown creased his smooth features, and he watched Doyle carefully.

“I—I don’t know. All I can remember is a blur, me and Bodie hitting each other, going back and forth, and his eyes—he looked so angry, and I hit him so hard and then—nothing.” He shook his head, eyes wide, drawing himself back from the horror of that misty memory. “But try as I like I can’t r-remember his face.”

“Well. It’s my face, sunshine, so you can quit trying.” Bodie reached out and half cuffed, half patted the side of his face, rustled Doyle’s curls, and then reached towards his own jacket and pulled out CI5 identification. He flipped it open, showing Bodie’s identity next to his face. “See, sunshine? I’ve been here all along.”

Doyle accepted the identification as if he were in a dream and stared down at it. He looked at the picture then back up at Bodie, examining them both carefully back and forth, checking the ID to see that it was still intact as originally made, not tampered with in any way. Preoccupied, he reached up and swiped at his dripping nose.

“You’re not dead?” he asked.

“’Course I’m not, sunshine. Here, blow your nose.” In a mixture of fondness and exasperation, Smith—Bodie!—held out a white handkerchief.

Doyle blew his nose very loudly. The two men stared at each other. “Sorry I hit you,” said Doyle. “I can’t remember why.”

“We were undercover. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Bodie reassured him. “You were the one who got hurt. I didn’t.” He reached out, almost as though he wanted to assure himself Doyle was still here, then checked himself and withdrew the hand.

Bodie continued. “By the way, the doctors say we have to be more careful of head wounds. Your getting knocked on the head several times in the last year made this problem much worse. To be honest, they didn’t think you’d ever fully recover. Cowley and I think you will, though,” he hastened to add at Doyle’s anxious look. “You’ve come far and fast, sunshine, so don’t worry.” He patted a hand back roughly over Doyle’s curls, ruffling them. “And you need a haircut, mate.”

Doyle let out a deep breath, one he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and closed his eyes and leaned against Bodie’s hand. “I know,” he said.

  
#8:

 **Always**

Things improved a lot for Bodie after Doyle remembered him. Food started tasting better. He was able to report to Cowley that Doyle was on the mend. They walked together and chatted instead of Bodie having to hang back and keep an eye on his mate from the distance. Sometimes they went to the local and had a pint.

Doyle still didn’t seem quite like himself—there was a cautiousness about him, a vagueness as he tried to remember everything he used to know—and he still tired easily. But he’d come so far that Bodie just knew he would return the rest of the way to that extremely competent, sometimes annoying but never dull Doyle he knew so well.

He wished now that he hadn’t listened to the doctors and let Doyle remember at his own pace, but had told him right away “I’m Bodie, you berk! Pay attention!” It would have saved some both a lot of pain.

Doyle’s mum was really an excellent cook. Now that Bodie wasn’t so low, he could enjoy her food to the hilt. “We’ll both be fat as houses,” remarked Doyle, more than once—whether to drive his point home, or because he’d forgotten he said it already Bodie wasn’t certain.

The thing he was certain of was that Doyle was coming back to him. And that was good enough for everything.

As he grew stronger, Doyle began to look with longing towards the little boxing club they passed on their way to the pub. Bodie could tell he wanted to have a go. They finally gave in and went.

At first, Doyle was happy enough to simply test himself against the weights and complain about how much work it would take to get in shape for Macklin. But his eyes travelled longingly to the punching-bag and Bodie knew what he really wanted to do.

“Why don’t you go for it, mate?” he asked on their second visit, nodding towards the bag.

Doyle looked uncharacteristically hesitant. Never in the past would he have to be encouraged to do something he wanted to do. Try to stop him, more like.

“Not sure about that, mate.” He picked up a dart and twirled it between his fingers.

Bodie looked down at Doyle’s hands and then caught them in his own, covering the dart, closing Doyle’s hand over it. “Mate, boxing isn’t at fault here. It was a number of things. Don’t let getting hurt stop you from enjoying it. Besides, it’s just sparring with a bag. Nobody’s going to hit back.”

Doyle snorted and glared at him. “You think I’m afraid?” He pronounced the word with scorn. “Not me, mate.” He started to walk away.

“Then what?” Bodie moved around in front of him quickly and planted himself there. “What? You still thinking back to when you thought you hurt me?”

Doyle hesitated, then nodded. “Don’t want to do anything to let that happen again.”

“Well, it won’t. I’m right here. Even hold the bag for you, mate.” He moved to stand behind it and waited and watched encouragingly while Doyle slipped on boxing gloves.

The owner watched them from across the room, the same way he’d been watching since they came in the first time. It seemed he knew hard men when he saw them. He hadn’t approached Bodie about anything yet, but Bodie had the feeling he was sizing them up, deciding whether they’d like an entrance into something slightly less than legal. He didn’t let it bother him. Every sunny town held some sort of underworld, in his view. But he was here for Doyle, to take care of him, not to uncover something crooked. Could be no more than an undercover boxing ring with betting on the side.

“You sure?” asked Doyle raising his fists and giving Bodie an uncertain look past the bag. He moved on his feet, so light and certain, just like he always had been. A thing of beauty was our Ray’s footwork. His muscles hadn’t forgotten anything.

“Swing away,” said Bodie. “I’ve got a good grip. Get you back into shape, and it won’t hit back.” He stuck his tongue out, making a silly face, and that did it: Doyle swung.

The next few minutes saw him really throw himself into it. Bodie braced himself and stood stock still. The punches carried through the bag, shoved and thundered at him. He held it still, soaking in Doyle’s strength and feeling a tension in the air from his partner, something like fear, something like fury.

When he stopped, Doyle was bathed in sweat, panting with his mouth open, letting his hands fall at his sides, completely drained. He’d worn out much quicker than he used to; it really would take some time to get him back into shape for CI5.

“All right, mate?” asked Bodie, stepping forward. He reached for Doyle’s right hand and helped him strip the glove off.

Doyle nodded. “All right.”

Bodie got the other glove off. “Good lad. Have to work up your strength, you know. You’re a real lightweight.” He threw an arm over Doyle’s shoulder, and returned the disgusted glare with a cheeky grin. “Come on, then, I’ll buy you a drink.” He led Doyle from the room, ignoring the speculative glance of the shady manager.

One drink was still Doyle’s maximum. He was supposed to be taking care of himself and not drink too much. It could interfere with his headache tablets if he should need to take one.

They headed out afterwards. It was evening, dusk, and the stars were starting to appear. Just a few. The sky was a deep, navy blue. Somewhere nearby a bird called, sleepy and homey-sounding. Bodie regarded the countryside with a satisfied air.

“Bodie,” said Doyle, sounding almost agonised.

“What, mate?” Bodie turned immediately to his friend. “What’s the matter?”

“Are you happy? I’m making you miss so much work, and—”

“Happy? ‘Course I’m happy. You didn’t make me miss anything.” He walked backwards in front of the frowning, worried-looking Doyle.

Who didn’t look convinced.

How could he tell Doyle what he meant exactly, without sounding soppy or too cheerful or false? “I’m glad to be here with you. It’s a nice holiday. Look around you.” He spread his arms.

Doyle’s mouth twitched up on one side in a grimace. He still looked worried. “Playing babysitter, you mean.”

“Hey, mate, I volunteered.” It wasn’t working; he wasn’t getting through. He moved to fall into step with Doyle and put an arm round his shoulder, giving him a little jostle and pulling him nearer. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Look, Ray, you’re over-thinking. You’ll be better in no time. In the meantime, I wouldn’t want to miss a thing.”

“Oh,” said Doyle. He blinked, as if suddenly realising something. He turned to Bodie. “You know, neither would I.”

“Then don’t forget me again.” Bodie pulled him closer impulsively in a half hug, grinning. He reached up and ruffled Doyle’s curls gently with his other hand.

Instead of ignoring him or swatting his hand away or growling, Doyle leaned against his shoulder for a moment, accepting the safety of Bodie, trusting him.

“Yeah, mate. Won’t forget you again in a hurry,” mumbled Doyle. He stifled a yawn, and drew back from Bodie’s shoulder. “Besides, you’d never beat me again at boxing and you know it!”

Bodie laughed aloud at the resurgence of Doyle’s belligerent nature. “No chance, is there?” He released Doyle.

“No, and you remember that, mate.”

“No, you remember.”

“Let’s both remember.” Doyle took a step towards him, eyes smiling and relieved, and flung an elbow up to rest on Bodie’s shoulder, staring at him. “Couldn’t forget you again if I wanted to.”

“Which you don’t.”

“Which I don’t.” He stifled a yawn.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.” He bent in front of Doyle, motioning for him to climb on his back piggy-back style.

Sleepily, Doyle clambered on. Bodie rose, carrying his friend’s weight. Doyle had lost a bit of weight, but he’d gain it back soon eating his mum’s cooking and building muscle training, both at the boxing club and when he was well enough, with Macklin.

Bodie walked down the lane carrying Doyle, holding Doyle braced up under his knees. Doyle’s hands and arms hung down his chest, relaxed and at ease, accepting this as if it were his right, his due.

This brought home to Bodie that his friend accepted more from him without bristling or taking offence lately. He wondered if that would last, once Doyle was feeling fully himself again. He no longer doubted that would happen, and soon; but he was not rushing anything. Even a slightly less confident, slightly forgetful Doyle was excellent company, and they had plenty of time.

They rounded the corner, and Doyle sucked in his breath. “Oh, nice!” The last of the sun stretched over the lane, making the houses look as though they belonged in a fairytale and the lane seem paved with pink stones.

“Very nice,” agreed Bodie, smiling affectionately. All the time in the world.

“Should’ve brought me camera. I’ll have to remember that,” said Doyle, snuggling down drowsily against Bodie’s back, letting his cheek come to rest on Bodie’s head.

“You will have to remember,” said Bodie quietly. “Me.”

He didn’t think his partner heard him; thought Doyle was half asleep and that he’d spoken too quietly. But Doyle answered, all the same.

“From now on, always,” he said.

<<>>


End file.
